Dirty Little Secrets
by Mireille DeMaupassant
Summary: The hallowed halls of Hogwarts Castle are riddled with dirty little secrets. What happens when they're revealed, one by one? Rated M for sexual content.
1. Chapter 1 - Ron

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters contained within this wonderful book series.

Ron

_I knock back another shot and slam the empty glass onto the bar as the hard liquor burns hot and sour at the back of my throat. It's a bloody awful sensation, but the alcohol goes to work fast, clearing out the anxiety that had been creeping back into my head._

_I thought being at the party would make this easier. In the lonely hours before, I deluded myself into believing that the loud music, the flashing lights, and the carefree atmosphere would be exactly what I needed to stay relaxed. I told myself he would probably be feeling more like himself tonight, and I wouldn't have to worry about how easily he lied to me this afternoon. Everything would be just like it was before._

_The second I walked into the Room of Requirement, though—the second I saw the crowd of celebrating Gryffindors, heard the music rumbling through the stone walls, and felt the pace of my heartbeat double—all of the false hope evaporated. Somehow I managed to wade through the sea of gyrating bodies, even greeting teammates_ _and classmates and friends, all the while, choking on the feeling that they were all just witnesses to my impending humiliation._

_Now, almost an hour later, I'm gripping the bar for support, thinking about how badly I need another drink. The house elf behind the bar seems to sense this and magics another "Fortem Fortibus" my way. This time, I don't wait for it to touch down. I snatch it out of the air and toss the toxic-looking yellow liquid into my mouth, adding the glass to the line of empties forming in front of me. This one doesn't have as much bite as the last one. I guess strengthening part of the potion is finally starting to kick in._

_I take a deep, shaky breath as the current song dies and Weird Sisters' screeching fills the room._

_"Harry," I recite, fighting the weight of my tongue. "I know things haven't been easy since everything that happened at the Ministry, but I want you to know that I'm still here for you and I'll always be because I love you."_

_I can't actually hear the words coming out of my mouth, but practicing them, focusing on them __keeps me from noticing little things like how long I've been sitting here, and from asking myself if I really think he's going to even show up._

_Suddenly, applause breaks out from somewhere by the door and my heart skips a beat. Time's up._

_The music stops abruptly and everyone turns to look. I see Seamus Finnigan pushing his way to the circular stone platform in the center of the room, a bottle in his hand and his wand pointed at his throat._

_"Ladies and gents gather round," his magically magnified voice booms as he steps up, a little unsteady on his feet. "Our guest of honor has arrived!"_

_He sweeps an arm toward the door and, as if on cue, the crowd parts along the line to reveal Harry standing among a group of latecomers that I don't recognize, looking happier than I've seen him in months._

_Has he been here the whole time? Why didn't he come find me?_

_Don't think about it. Not now._

_"Harry Potter, you magnificent bastard!" Seamus says. He's shouting even with the Sonorous charm, which means the ale he's holding is hardly his first._

_A rumble of laughter travels across the room. Harry smiles and I feel myself relax for the first time today. It's him, the real him—not the stranger who's been taking him over since he came back for sixth year with no explanation for where he'd been all summer._

_"You've led Gryffindor House to some spectacular victories," Seamus goes on, "but this season, you've truly outdone yourself! Three matches! Three victories! A spot in the Quidditch Cup Final! And not—a—single—point—scored—against us!"_

_The cheers and applause at Seamus's words are deafening. The stone walls rumble with the frenzy, still fresh from today's win and it's like we're all back on the pitch, watching Harry emerge from a snowy pit holding the snitch high over his head. Even I have to pull myself out of my anxiety for a moment to appreciate how impressive this season's been._

_Seamus raises his hand for silence after a minute._

_"My fellow Gryffindors," he calls, "let's all raise a glass to the man who couldn't stop at saving us from certain doom. He's the best captain and seeker Hogwarts has ever had, and he's well on his way to making our final Quidditch season the most impressive that Hogwarts has ever seen." He raises his bottle in Harry's direction. The rest of the partygoers follow suit, lifting their drinks in honor of their hero._

_"To Harry," Seamus says._

_"To Harry," the crowd murmurs in return. And they all drink._

_My eyes flick to Harry but he's not Harry anymore. He's tense and uncomfortable. His smile is forced and his nod to Seamus is stiff. As the music starts back up, someone from his group puts a hand on his shoulder to congratulate him. He shakes it off and beelines to the bar._

_I send him a smile but he either doesn't see me or doesn't want to acknowledge me._

_"Hey," I shout to him over The Hobgoblins' newest single._

_"Hey," he shouts back, flagging down the bartender instead of looking at me. The house elf takes one look at Harry and twirls a long, knobby finger in his direction. A short glass, half filled with clear purple liquid appears on the bar in front of him. Harry drains it in one swig and signals for another._

_"This is a great party!" I say._

_He doesn't reply._

_"Seamus's best, so far, I think." I continue, fighting to keep the desperation out of my voice. He still doesn't answer. I watch him down the second drink and order a third, and I can't keep my concern to myself anymore. "Maybe you should slow down, mate!"_

_He ignores me and knocks the drink back. This time, it hits him hard. The glass falls out of his hand and he leans against the bar, eyes shut tight, hands balled into fists as the effect of the magical liquor runs its course._

_Do it now, my gut tells me. Tell him now!_

_My mouth hangs open, the words I've practiced so many times circling just beyond reach. When he finally turns around he doesn't even notice. His eyes are trained on the crowd, scanning their faces with the same look he gets when he's in the air, hunting for the snitch. I don't have to guess who he's looking for._

_We find him at the same time, skulking in a corner on the opposite side of the room, his silver-blond hair catching one of the dancing lights every so often. Harry starts forward into the crowd. I follow and try to stop him, grabbing at his shirt, his arm, his shoulder._

_"Harry wait—"_

_"I've gotta go."_

_"I need to tell you—"_

_"We'll talk later."_

_"I love you!" He stops abruptly and I nearly run into him. He wheels around. With the full force of his green eyed stare suddenly on me, my breath catches in my throat. I don't know what to say so I repeat myself. "Harry, I—"_

_"Don't!" he cuts me off, and he throws my hand off of his arm._

_A mix of emotions passes over his face, but more than anything, he looks...upset. He steps toward me, mouth open as if he's going to say something, but he stops short. It happens second time. He takes a step, a breath, opens his mouth and I hope to god he says something—anything—but I get nothing. Then, he's gone._

_I stand, frozen in the spot where he's left me with his nothing. I crane my neck over the heads of the crowd, watching him weave in and out of the dancers until he emerges on the other side, at Malfoy's back. He taps Malfoy on the shoulder and starts to speak. Without hesitation, Malfoy is on him, pulling him in, kissing him, groping wildly at him and Harry, over his initial shock, is responding in kind. Malfoy pushes him against the wall. His hands are everywhere—in Harry's hair, on his face, on his chest, down the front of his jeans..._

_This should hurt, shouldn't it? I should feel sick or betrayed, at least. Anything but this nothingness, this gaping hole where my breaking heart should be. Or maybe this is just what heartbreak feels like._

_A door appears on the wall behind them. It swings backward and they disappear into the darkness beyond. As the door closes and fades away, I realize it isn't heartbreak I'm feeling. It's confirmation. All this time, I've been fighting to hold on to what little of Harry I could and now I know that, all this time, I've had exactly what I have now: nothing._

AN: Not my strongest first chapter, but I've been out of the game for almost a decade so bear with me. Hopefully, practice makes perfect, or better, at least. Next chap will be up tomorrow. Don't forget to review!


	2. Chapter 2 - Severus

Severus

The faint odor of burnt rubber fills my nostrils as I stride up the aisle of my dungeon classroom. Someone has added the powdered bicorn horn to their Pepper-Up Potion before allowing it to simmer, rendering it completely useless and earning themselves a zero for the day. I start to wonder to whom I will be imparting the failing marks when the smell grows stronger. My heart leaps with malicious glee as I find myself standing before Harry Potter's work station. A waterfall of green smoke is issuing from his potion, cascading over the rim of his cauldron, as he flips frantically through his textbook, no doubt searching for a way to rectify his blunder.

"Something wrong with your potion, Potter?" I ask him.

He answers me without looking up from his book. "No, sir," he says through clenched teeth. "My potion is fine."

I smile and lean so closely to him that the bristly hairs sticking out of the crown of his head nearly brush the tip of my nose. "Ah, you see, Potter," I whisper to him. "That is where you are very much mistaken."

Without another word I straighten. A quick glance at the clock on the back wall tells me there are ten minutes left in the lesson. _Perfect_, I think to myself.

"You should now be adding the finishing touches to your potions," I say to the rest of the students, breaking a solid hour of silent concocting, "and if you're not, ten more minutes won't be enough to save you. When you have finished, bring a sample of your work to my desk for grading. If any of your potions look like Potter's,"—I pause to allow the other students to eye Potter's work—"then you need not turn in a sample at all because it is so poorly crafted that you would be better off receiving a zero than the marks that such shoddy workmanship would earn."

I hear a few stifled sniggers come from the cluster of Slytherin students on the right side of the room, but my eyes are on Potter, who is glaring at me with murder in his eyes.

"In fact," I continue, fueled by his fury, "You may all leave after bringing me your samples, for Mr. Potter will be making up for his utter ineptitude by spending his dinner hour cleaning up each and every one of your work stations. Without magic."

The Slytherin students make no attempt to hide their amusement this time, openly applauding and jeering in the direction of Potter's work area. Their mirth pleases me, but it is quickly eclipsed by the look of contempt that Potter is sending my way. His green eyes bore into mine and I feel a shock of arousal pulse through my body. It leaves me thankful for the layers of billowing robes that conceal my now rock hard member.

I cock a taunting eyebrow at him in response before returning to my desk. As soon as I sit down, surreptitiously adjusting my undergarments to accommodate the recent protuberance, the students begin to bring their samples to me. None is brave enough to endure my criticisms, however, and the room empties before I am finished grading the first.

I take each flask in turn, peering into it in search of telling changes in hue, sniffing it for traces of mistaken ingredients. Draco's is nearly perfect; his heavy hand with the salamander scales will lose him a mere half-point. Gregory Goyle's and Vincent Crabbe's are far too viscous, suggesting they boiled their potions rather than simmered them, and Weasley's, to my absolute amusement, is utterly unrecognizable, earning him bottom marks.

As I scribble a zero next to his name on my grading parchment, I hear Potter laboring about the dungeon. I watch him take hold of one of the large pewter cauldrons and heave it to the far side of the classroom, hear him mutter oaths under the cover of the cauldron clamoring over the lip of the sink. What I would not give to catch a sliver of the curses he is surely laying to my name, to finally have a justifiable excuse to carry out one of the many punishments I've dreamed up for his wickedness.

_The sharp crack of leather hitting tender, white skin...A tortured wail as each blow lands...The flesh rising into hot, red welts... _

Another shiver of pleasure ghosts through my body and crests in between my thighs, where my cock grows ever harder. I cannot give it the attention it craves, so I reach for another flask—Ernie MacMillan's—, promising to allow myself proper indulgence in my fantasies once Potter has left.

MacMillan's potion seems to have been crafted with a degree of skill that far exceeds what I know him to be capable of. Its flamelike appearance flickers red orange and gold in nearly the same way Draco's does. In fact, when I compare the two, I can hardly see a difference between them. Suspicious, I bring MacMillan's flask to my nose. The potion's characteristic burnt cinnamon scent fills my nostrils, but beneath it lies a faint odor that I can only describe as deceitful.

I take my wand from the pocket of my robes and tap MacMillan's flask three times.

"_Aparecium_," I mutter under my breath.

The Pepper-Up Potion turns an oily black as the true nature of the concoction is revealed. A Mimicking potion—a cheap one, at that. It seems MacMillan has turned to contraband materials in order to pass his classes. Relieving him of the burden of N.E.W.T. Potions will be a necessity. Giving him detention every weekend until he leaves Hogwarts—either by graduation or expulsion—will be an absolute joy.

As I make a note next to MacMillan's name, I hear a yelp of pain followed closely by a clang of pewter on stone and spilled potion sloshing across the dungeon floor.

I look up. Potter is doubled over at the back of the classroom, clutching one hand with the other, his face a portrait of agony. I cross the room in less than half a dozen strides.

"Show me," I command, holding out my hand.

"It's nothing," he gasps. "I'm—"

My patience for his frail attempt at bravado lost, I take his wrist and wrench it toward myself, silently delighting in the pain that leaps to his face in response.

"Your hand," I say with forced indifference as I examine the ridge of red, blistered flesh forming across his palm, "has suffered a severe burn as the result of direct contact with undiluted salamander bile." I look at his face, screwed up with pain, and try to resist the smile fighting its way to my lips. "Unfortunately," I say with ill-concealed glee at the opportunity that has dropped into my lap, "the bile has been absorbed into your wound. I won't be able to mend it properly until the bile has been...extracted."

"Please," Potter gasps, "I need to see Madame—"

"This will be painful."

I take my wand from my pocket and place the tip at Potter's burn before he can even think to protest. With a whispered incantation, his screams fill the empty dungeon. Shivers of pleasure reel up and down my spine, across my skin, and straight to my cock as the sounds of his agony bounce off the stone walls. I am more aroused, now, than my robes can conceal, but no matter. Potter is far too preoccupied to notice the slight tenting in the fabric.

Suddenly, a blast from behind me propels me forward, onto Potter. In an instant, the room fills with thick purple smoke. We both fall forward, onto a nearby work table. I land on top of him, my erection connecting with the soft flesh of his backside. Despite the apparent danger, I let out an involuntary moan at the unprecedented contact. He tries to push me off, but I force him down, bending back him over the work surface. I force myself to ignore how much I am enjoying the way his struggling feels against my arousal as I squint through the dense fog, searching for the source. Finally, I spot it: a cauldron in the front corner of the classroom, formerly occupied by the small cluster of Slytherin students. I take aim.

"_Finite incantatum_!" I shout.

The smoke begins to siphon back into the cauldron at once, as if the explosion were happening in reverse. Within seconds, the room is clear, the only evidence of its disturbance a slight ringing in my ears.

I lift my hand from Potter's back. He pushes hard against me, knocking me back into another workstation, and runs.

"Potter!" I call after him as I try to right myself, but he is already at the door. As he reaches for it, the door swings open. He dodges it wildly, narrowly avoiding being buffeted to the floor.

"I need to speak to you, Severus!" Draco Malfoy shouts as he blusters into the classroom. Upon seeing Potter at the doorway, he stops short. "What's going on, here?" he asks, eyeing us both suspiciously.

Neither Potter nor I have an answer for him. Potter stares at Draco, equally stunned by his appearance.

"Potter, wait!" I call again. Without a word, he glances back at me, terror and disgust etched upon his face. Then, he strides past Draco and through the open door.

Anger and frustration fuel the fire within me past the point of restraint. My eyes fall upon Draco, with the question still on his lips, and I charge.

AN: I couldn't sleep, so I posted another chapter. Don't get used to this. My profile bio may be almost eight years old, but the part about posting in a regular and/or timely manner is still true. You know where to leave your thoughts. -Mimi


	3. Chapter 3 - Draco

Draco

He comes at me like a beast, nostrils flared and teeth bared in determination. His hand closes around my upper arm, the long fingernails clamping down and biting my skin through the sleeve of my school robes. My knees weaken at the sharp, sudden pain and I nearly fall over as he pulls me to the door through which I just came.

"Severus," I say, struggling to keep from falling over my own feet as I try to match his relentless pace. "What are you—"

"Quiet!" he hisses, fiercely, without so much as a glance in my direction.

My retort cowers at the back of my throat. Our footsteps echo all the way down the deserted dungeon corridor to the only door visible from the Potions classroom. With a wave of his wand, the door swings open. He shoves me, unceremoniously, into his dark office. Then, he closes the door again—and locks it—and we're left in the near pitch black. His seemingly disembodied face floats towards me, illuminated by the faint glow of whatever potion preserves the specimens lining the walls.

An invisible hand cracks across my face with such force that I'm knocked off balance. The same hand grabs the front of my robes and pulls me back up. Lips crash into mine, pushing me further into the office. The backs of my knees collide with the edge of his desk. He lifts me onto the top, sending rolls of parchment, quills, and ink pots pitching to the floor. I groan in pleasurable surprise as his tongue fills my mouth.

His hands leave my robes' collar and travel downward—first to my chest to pull at my my nipples through the layers of clothing, and then to massage the bulge forming between my thighs. My body's response is automatic as the long neglected flame of desire ignites within me. I want to pull him closer, to wrap my arms and legs around him, to lay back and draw him on top of me, but he's already pulling away.

Our lips separate before I'm through kissing him. He draws back from the desk, towing me along by my belt buckle. His long fingers delve past my open robes and attack my trouser fastenings. The garment loosens from my body almost immediately. He pushes it to the floor, hooks his fingers into my underpants and tears them down as well. Then, he steps back to survey his spoils.

The way his eyes devour my nakedness sends a heat surging to my groin that chases away the chill creeping up my legs. Memories I've been pretending to have forgotten flood my mind; feelings I've been pretending to have given up pulsate within me. I should end this now—leave before it goes any further—but the look on his face, the open yearning, keeps me rooted to my spot.

His hands move to the lower part of his robes and, a moment later, his erection emerges from the fabric. It hangs in the air, pale and ghostly against the backdrop of darkness. I feel my breaths become ragged, as they catch in my throat. How many times have I seen that magnificent member? And yet each time is like a surprise, a new promise of pleasures untold. He steps toward me, takes my bare hips in his hands and pulls me close. Our engorged flesh connects. Like a fool, I crane my neck back, eyes closed and lips parted, expecting to feel his mouth upon mine once again. Another hard slap to the face sends me reeling back to reality.

Fury at his betrayal flares within me, but before I can act, he twists me around and pushes me onto the desk like I'm nothing more than his personal fuck toy. I land bent over, with both hands flat upon the surface. Then, like a shadow cast upon a wall, he's on me, his chest heaving against my back, his cock pressing against my buttocks.

"Say it," he commands, easing himself into the cleft between my cheeks. His voice is husky with need, his breath hot against my ear. I feel him urge the tip of his arousal against my entrance and, slick with warm precum, I yield to his advance. Suddenly, all thoughts of anger and defiance—of heartbreak and mistreatment—evaporate as he lingers there, barely inside of me, teasing me with the promise of reconciliation.

"I'm wicked," I groan, lured back into obedience. "I need to be punished. Punish me, Professor."

With a sharp thrust, he buries himself deep within me. I cry out with mingled pain and ecstasy. He pulls out.

"Again!" he commands.

"Punish me, Professor!" I implore.

He thrusts again, harder, deeper, grunting ferociously with the effort. His cock finds that bundle of tenderest flesh inside me and my eyes flutter closed as my body dissolves into pure sensation. He rears back without hesitation and surges into me again and again, ever faster, ever deeper. An incoherent litany of pleas pours freely from my lips, begging for more, begging him never to stop.

I arch my back to him, pushing wantonly against his thrusts. He takes my bait. His fingernails rake across my scalp as he grabs a fistful of my hair. He wrenches my head back mercilessly. His grip on my hip tightens. The pace of his thrusts increases. He's fucking me in earnest, now—ramming into me with relentless demand. His climax is close, maybe seconds away. I wrap my hand around the erection throbbing against my abdomen, and pump furiously.

The pressure begins to build at once, but not quickly enough. Already, he's reached the height of his frenzy. His final bucks dissolve into body-wide shudders as orgasm overtakes him, silently and completely. He collapses onto me, spent and sighing with satisfaction. I can feel his hot breaths against the back of my neck. I move my hand frantically over my shaft, desperate to share in his euphoria. Finally, my reward rushes upon me and, just as he withdraws from my body, I come with a half disappointed groan.

The apologies follow like clockwork—_I wasn't ready._ _He took me by surprise. I'll be ready next _time—but, when the warm moisture coating my exposed skin cools uncomfortably and the dungeon lair reforms around, I remember, with a swell of self loathing, that I am not supposed to be this person anymore.

I quickly right myself, now keen to cover the body that I had given away so hungrily only moments ago. My cheeks burn as I pull my trousers up from the floor, my still tingling fingers fumbling over the buttons and zipper and belt buckle. I can feel his eyes on me, watching to see what I do, how I'll react to what he's just done, and I can already see the smug sneer on his face as he lords my weakness over me.

_I knew you still wanted me, _his voice rings in my head, drawing angry tears to sting my eyes. _I knew you'd come back. I knew you were still a fool._

Angry tears sting the corners of my eyes. I dash them away with the heels of my palms. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me unravel on top of what he's taken.

Just as my face settles into a comfortable look of indifference, soft torchlight blooms across the room. I notice, with more annoyance than I would dare admit, that he has already put himself to rights, the slight sheen of moisture across his upper lip the only remaining trace of the animal desire that had consumed him before, and I have to stop myself from huffing. The bastard can't even have the decency to look as disheveled as I do.

"Rough day?" I ask as casually if we'd simply run into each other and he _hadn't_ fucked me like it was my sixteenth birthday.

"Yes," he replies vaguely with a sigh as he surveys the mess we've made. "I would apologize, but you really didn't seem to mind.

"No need. The body wants what the body wants."

He glances in my direction, sweeping his gaze up and down my body in a quick appraisal that sends tingles from my spine to my fingertips. He smirks and my stomach lurches. "So it would seem. Now," he says, crossing his arms. "I presume you wanted to speak to me about my letter to your mother."

"Your what?"

"When you barged into my classroom, demanding to speak to me," he says slowly, with obvious exasperation, "was it about the letter?"

It takes a few seconds for the memory to slide into place. I'd completely forgotten my original reason for coming to see him in light of the unexpected turn of events.

"Er, yes," I reply. "You had no right to contact my mother—"

"I had every right, Draco. I am your teacher."

"I thought that, given our _history_—"

"If you're referring to our arrangement," he says, cutting me off again, "I shouldn't have to remind you that we ended it, as per _your_ request."

"And the letter was what? My punishment?"

He scoffs and I immediately regret having let the words come out of my mouth.

"No, you _foolish_ little boy," he snarls. "As I told you after your little_ tantrum_ last winter, you are free to do as you like. But when _what—" _He flicks his eyes over the whole of me again and his disgust is like a knife in my gut. "—or _whoever_ is occupying your time interferes with your attendance in _my_ class it is my job to—"

"_To run to mummy?_"

"—to redirect your focus and remind you of your priorities!"

"Ha!" I sneer. "I know exactly what my priorities are."

"Your failing grades say otherwise."

"And since when do you give a damn about my grades?" I ask, my voice growing tight with barely suppressed anger.

"Since your mother asked me to watch over you in your father's...absence," he answers coolly.

"Don't you dare talk about my father! I don't need you to babysit me!"

"Then, stop acting like a child."

"What about earlier?" I challenge. "I attended your class and completed your assignment! You graded my sample! Was that the work of a _child_?"

"No," he says simply. "It was a very well crafted potion. Far superior to any of your classmates'—"

"Ha!"

"—which tells me," he goes on, "that I was right to contact your mother."

A self-satisfied smile works at the corners of his thin lips. I want to strike him, to claw that pompous look right off of his face, but I know that would only leave him even more convinced of his power over me. I've already given him too much of myself, so I pull back.

"Fine," I say quietly, dropping my gaze to the stone floor. "Is that all?"

"You came to see me, Draco," he reminds me, sounding almost bored again. "If you haven't anything else to discuss, you are free to leave."

Without another word, I stride past him. The door swings open at my approach and, the moment I cross the threshold, closes behind me. I keep my clipped pace to the end of the corridor, up the staircase, past the first floor and the second and the third. I don't know where I'm going, only that I can't stop because mutinous thoughts are swirling through my mind.

_He wanted me, _an inescapable whisper recounts with a disgusting amount of glee._ He saw me and he had to have me. And the way he looked at me, the hunger in his eyes..._

_I liked it._

I reach a landing—of which floor, I don't even know—and finally stop, doubling over, almost certain that I'm going to be sick.

AN: I finally got around to revising this chapter! I realized it would need some tweaking after writing chapter 6. Hopefully, this gives a better idea of Severus and Draco's relationship. Happy reading! Don't forget to review!


	4. Chapter 4 - Harry

Harry

_I've been flying blind for an eternity, zooming around in a white abyss that came so suddenly it could have been summoned by magic. I narrowly avoid colliding with players and dodge bludgers at every turn, all the while keeping my eyes peeled for any sign of the snitch. My team is as hungry for a record breaking season as I am. Somehow they've managed to score almost two dozen goals to Slytherin's nil. Now, it's up to me to bring it home._

_Finally, I spot it near the ground, directly below me—a glittering speck of gold dust against a blank white sheet. But I'm not the only one who's seen it. Malfoy is already racing toward it from halfway across the pitch and I'm at least as far above it. I try to think—How close is it to the ground? How quickly can I dive? Would I be able to pull out of it in time?—but with each second that passes, Malfoy gets closer and closer. He's twenty meters away...sixteen...twelve..._

_I could let him have it, I think. Gryffindor has more than enough points. His catching the snitch would only end the match. But can I stand to give up a perfect season?_

_An invisible hand grabs my insides and twists them at the thought. Before I know it, I'm prying my frozen fingers from my broom handle, reaching into my robes, where my wand is tucked safely against my chest, breathing deeply._

_"It's an insane idea," says the voice of reason. "You'll almost certainly die."_

_Almost certainly, I counter, meaning there's a chance. It's all the hope I need. I take a moment only to line myself up with the snitch. Then, I launch myself from my broom._

_The fall takes an age. Icy air whips around me, cutting into my bare skin as I cut a path through the dense, swirling snowfall. My eyes are wide open, despite the cold, and my plan—the six word mantra—runs continuously through my mind._

_Grab the snitch. Say the spell, I think over and over again, as I seem to hang weightless in the sky. Grab the snitch. Say the spell._

_Then, the air breaks and I'm falling—truly falling—at lightning speed. Suddenly, the ground is rushing up to meet me. I'm ten feet above. Something small and round thwacks into the center of my open palm. The snitch! I close my fingers tightly around it. Eight feet. Six feet. Say the spell! I swing my wand arm forward and point at the ground, the incantation on the tip of my tongue when—_

_WHAM!_

_Something smashes into me and sends me careening sideways, tumbling through the air like a leaf caught in a windstorm. As I twist and spin out of control, I feel something—someone falling with me. I catch glimpses of him—an emerald green robe sleeve, silver blond hair, a dark mahogany broom handle—and try to grab ahold, but with the snitch in one hand and my wand in the other, my grip is tenuous at best. He's out of my reach before I can grasp him, and in the next heartbeat, the abyss has swallowed him whole. Terror spikes in my blood, followed swiftly by the pain of every bone in my body shattering as my descent comes to an abrupt end._

_In the silent moments that follow, I feel the icy chill of death seeping through my robes and into my skin._

_Open your eyes, the dead whisper. Face us..._

_Like a child cowering in the dark, I shake my head and squeeze my already closed eyes shut tighter. It doesn't stop them from coming, though. I can feel their greedy fingers scraping at the earth around my resting place. A hand clamps onto my arm and starts to pull me upward. I struggle against it, fighting as hard as I can to keep my place. A second hand takes my other arm, a third and fourth grab each of my shoulders, and as one, they wrench me out of the ground. _

_The sudden burst of light behind my eyelids catapults me into consciousness. I'm not dead, I think as I swallow thick gulps of frigid air. The ground is so cold and wet against my cheek. No, not the ground. The snow._

_And then I remember. The storm! The match! _

_I roll myself onto my back, ignoring the at least a dozen body parts screaming in protest, and greet the circle of concerned faces hovering above me. Then, with my last ounces of strength, I lift a quavering arm, unclench my frozen fingers, and let fly my golden gift._

_The pain, the cold, and the terror all drown in the wake of my rapture, because in this moment, I am not 'The Boy Who Lived','Saviour of the Wizarding World', or 'The Chosen One.' In this moment of untainted triumph, I am Harry Potter, Quidditch Hero._

_~o~_

_The next few hours are a haze as my ability to stay conscious wanes. A roar of cheering and screaming deafens me as I'm lifted onto a stretcher. Cold brilliance gives way to warmth and darkness. I fall back onto soft, white linens. Someone is moving my limbs—raising, lowering, twisting, prodding, pinching. It hurts, but I'm powerless to stop it._

_"I suppose you think you're quite clever," says a soft but stern female voice, "risking your life for a silly game!"_

_"Not...silly..." I murmur, feeling like my mouth is swimming away from my face as I speak._

_"Don't bother trying to talk," she says. "Your little stunt cost you dearly. You've got nine broken bones and a nasty fracture in your skull. Open up."_

_I obey and am rewarded with a mouthful of liquid smoke. It's all I can do to keep from coughing it up spitting it back out._

_"There," she says with satisfaction, and I vaguely wonder if it's with her work or my reaction. "You'll be right as rain in no time. I hope your match was worth it."_

_Her voice echoes as I slip into the ether of enchanted sleep. The pins and needles have already set to work mending my arm, both legs, ribs, back and head, and just before I drop off I smile and whisper, "Was..."_

_~o~_

_Hot water cascades over my body from each of the three shower heads hanging over my stall. I press my palms against the gray tiles and let the enchanted rivulets snake around my arms and legs and torso, loosening my aching, muscles. Sweetly scented steam wafts around me, and I breathe it in deeply. Its effect is instantaneous. I feel my eyelids droop as relaxation washes over me, and yet..._

_The tightness in my chest. It's still there._

_I ran. Like a fucking coward, I read his note and I ran. I crept out of the Hospital Wing while Madame Pomfrey's back was turned and took to the corridors, his words haunting every step of my aimless journey._

_'Harry, I tried to stay until you woke up but Pomfrey kicked me out. I'll be back later. Hopefully, she'll be in a better mood. Don't go anywhere. There's something I need to tell you.'_

_Something he needs to tell me, indeed. I turn my face up to the stream and let out a frustrated sigh. This is exactly what I was afraid would happen. Two years of holding him at arm's length, of ignoring his subtle hints at his feelings for me while I have one meaningless encounter after another with every Quidditch enthusiast from here to Hogsmeade—Two bloody years of hoping that he'll just give up on me, that he'll realize he deserves so much better—and instead he chooses to redouble his efforts._

_The idiot, I can't stop myself from thinking, and I instantly feel guilty._

_It's not his fault, I tell myself. The plan was stupid, anyway. And cowardly. This'll be better. A clean break._

_As I reach for the soap, an uneasy feeling bristles through the hairs on the back of my neck. I freeze just in time to see a jagged jet of white light scream past my fingertips. The shelf holding the bar of soap explodes in a shower of stone and broken tiles. I throw myself back, but my body feels heavy, my senses dulled. I feel a sharp pain as a tile shard cuts across my cheek. _

_Heart pounding, I whip around to squint through my nearsightedness at my attacker. I make out a pale figure with white blonde hair, wearing emerald green Quidditch robes. _

_Draco Malfoy. _

_"What the hell are you—"_

_He raises his arm again, his wand aimed directly at me. Without thinking, I jump, tumbling across the wet floor as the wall cracks open behind me. A jet of water surges from the gap. He takes aim again. I touch my thigh and think of the wand sitting on top of my quidditch robes with a pang of regret. I have no defense, and now no cover, so I embrace the only option left to me. _

_Before I can think better of it, I'm on my feet and running. My legs feel heavy, hard to maneuver. I lumber towards Malfoy, clumsily dodging two more of his curses until my body collides with his. We stumble back and fall in a tangle of flailing limbs. The floor rushes past our heads as we plunge into the empty swimming pool sized bathtub in the middle of the room. I brace myself for the crushing impact, but it never comes. Instead, the air tightens around us, slowing our descent like a bungee cord. We come to a stop with our faces barely an inch from the tub's marble bottom. Then, we're launched back out of the tub, into the air. _

_My back hits the floor tiles with a wet smack. Malfoy lands in a heap on the next to me. He attacks without hesitation, scrambling on top of me, straddling my torso. His fist slams into my cheek. Blood sprays from my mouth, mingling with the water pooling beneath my head. He wraps his fingers around my neck, his palms pressing against my throat. I can see his eyes, bloodshot red and shining with tears._

_"You cheating bastard," he growls, squeezing tighter and tighter._

_White lights are popping in my eyes. I try to blink them away, but it only makes them worse. My chest is spasming, desperate to fill my lungs with air. I dig my fingernails into his hands, his arms, his face full of rage, but his hold is firm._

_Then, in a moment of clarity, I reach above me, scrabbling at the floor beyond my head for something—anything useful as the room starts to go dark. Mercifully, my fingers brush against something solid and slippery. The bar of soap! I grasp it and, rallying all the strength I have left, I take a madcap swing at Malfoy's head._

_The bar and my fist both connect with the side of his face. I hear him grunt in pain before his weight lifts off of my body. Suddenly, I am coughing, wheezing, choking on the air rushing into my lungs. I sit up as quickly as I can, my head still spinning. His wand is laying on the floor, halfway between me and the row of shower stalls. If I can just reach it..._

_I try to crawl. His fingers are around my ankle in seconds, yanking me back. I try to fight, to kick him off, but the floor is so slick that my arms slip out from underneath me. He rolls me onto my back and takes another swing at my face. This time, I'm ready. I block his punch and counter with one of my own. My knuckles ram against his mouth. I feel slicing open as they run across his teeth. Before he can recover from the shock, I grab the lapels of his robes and throw him onto the floor._

_The upper hand now mine, I pin him down—his arms with my hands, his torso with my torso. He struggles wildly beneath me, trying to buck me off like a rabid hippogriff, but we both know I was always the stronger of the two of us. I hold him fast, and slowly, he loses steam. His body eventually goes limp, his head falls back to the floor, and he looks up at me defeated, breathing heavily, with one question in his eyes:_

_What now?_

_It's the question I am asking myself, at the moment. How am I going to make him pay for attacking me when I was most vulnerable, for nearly strangling me to death? Instinct tells me that to pay him in kind would be to sink to his level, but the dark part of me that feels the bruises forming on my neck and my back and my face wants him to suffer. I lean forward to pronounce my judgement. Without warning, his head rushes toward my face. I have just enough time to brace myself for the pain of impact before his lips capture mine. _

_Our mouths come apart as quickly as they had come together. I stare at him in shock. He rears forward for another assault and my body reacts before my brain can process what's happening. I meet his lips with equal force, parting them, delving into his depths with my tongue, swimming in the mix of blood and firewhiskey. His wrists are twisting in my fingers, begging freedom. I release them. Suddenly, eager, slender hands are grasping my shoulders, moving up my neck, burying themselves in my hair, running over my back, squeezing the cheeks of my arse and swells of arousal pulse through me in their wake._

_I moan into his mouth, my senses finally awakened to the desires of my body. My cock throbs between our torsos, aching with yearning to feel his touch. I claw at his robes, silently threatening to tear them off his body. He pushes his chest against me and I happily relinquish control to him. I let him roll me onto my back, our mouths still working frantically against each other. Then, all at once, he pulls away. He places a hand on my chest and, too late, I see his other arm rear back. I feel my eyes widen in shock before he swings his fist into the base of my jaw and everything goes black._

AN: So many apologies! I can't even begin to describe the trouble I've had with this chapter! I had it almost finished and then, in a sudden stroke of inspiration, I decided to flex my authorial muscles and add a layer of depth to it that wasn't in the original plan. Two and a half months of looking at this chapter every day later, I am frustrated and just glad that I've managed to bring it to some kind of end. So, needless to say, it's not my best by far and I'm nowhere near happy with it, but I'm exhausted and I've decided that if I want to finish this story before the end of the year, I'll just have to fix this chapter later. I hate to post mediocre work, but I can't let perfectionist brain get the better of me. As always, thanks for reading. Please review!


	5. Chapter 5 - Ron

Ron

My potion is...brown. Brown and thick and smelling strongly of...turnips? I lean into the steam drifting up from my cauldron and sniff again. Definitely turnips. That can't be right. I wait until Snape's not looking and pull my textbook out of my backpack, quickly flipping to the last page of Pepper-Up Potion instructions and skimming through the lines I spent hours memorizing last night.

_"After sprinkling in the powdered salamander scales," the last line reads, "allow the concoction to simmer until it has achieved its characteristic ethereal, flamelike appearance. (approx. 15 mins.)"_

My potion's been simmering for at least that long and there's nothing even remotely 'ethereal' or 'flamelike' about the cauldronful of muck sitting in front of me. What the hell could've—

And then, it hits me. The scales. Did I remember to put them in? I must have! Even I couldn't be so thick. But even while I deny it, I realize that I can't actually remember using the salamander scales. Suddenly, I'm rifling through my things, searching for the little leather pouch and praying to Merlin that I find it half empty. When I lift my backpack to look underneath, the pouch falls from a side pocket. I pick it up, knowing by its weight alone that not a single grain has gone into my potion, and whatever's holding up my insides gives out.

"Shit!" I curse angrily under my breath.

"You should now be adding the finishing touches to your potions," Snape's voice calls from two tables away, "and if you're not, ten minutes won't be enough to save you. When you have finished, bring a sample of your work to my desk for grading."

I start to panic, my eyes jumping from table to table as if solving my problem were as easy as looking into another cauldron. Everyone's already started gathering their samples. Well, everyone except—

"—Potter will be making up for his utter ineptitude by spending his dinner hour cleaning up each and every one of your work stations. Without magic."

_Don't look at him,_ I snap at myself. _He's not your problem anymore._

But I've been telling myself that for months and it's never felt less true. I've stolen glances at him almost daily since the night he made his choice. Catching sight of him with Malfoy makes me feel like an idiot and seeing him alone makes me curse my weak heart, but neither has ever convinced me to stop. His cauldron is belching green smoke, his potion the only one that looks to be anywhere near as bad as mine. I should thank him; it could just as easily have been me who'd drawn Snape's attention. Yet, somehow, I don't think that would make him so eager to rekindle our friendship after three months of silence.

I turn my attention to the table to my right, where none other than Ernie Macmillan is gingerly ladling swirling red, yellow, and orange vapor into a vial.

"How the hell did you manage that?" I ask, shock temporarily taking over my anxiety.

"Perseverance and perspicacity," he answers, his eyes never leaving the vial slowly filling with liquid fire.

I roll my eyes, knowing I should've expected a bollocks answer from such a pompous arse, and something in his cauldron draws my attention. There's some potion in there, licking up the insides. It's not much, but it might be enough for another sample.

"Ernie," I hiss, with one eye trained on Snape, now sitting at his desk, "let me have some of your potion."

"Piss off," Ernie whispers back.

"Come on, Ern! Help me out," I urge through clenched teeth. "I swear I'd do the same for you!"

He takes his time getting the last wisps of potion into his vial and it's only after he's sealed it that he finally looks my way.

"Oh, ho, ho," he chortles, peering into my cauldron, "from the look of that mess, I'd say I'm better off without your help."

It takes a moment for his insult to register, and by that time, his back is already to me. That doesn't stop me from putting two fingers up at him and calling him a git, though. He pretends not to hear me as he swaggers up to Snape's desk, leaves his vial, and walks down the center aisle, toward the door.

After he disappears into the corridor, I throw myself back into my chair and scowl at my poor excuse for a potion, but that just makes me want to upend the cauldron, so I lean forward, dropping my head into my hands.

_Ronald Weasley, begging for help from Ernie Macmillan?_ a familiarly disapproving voice rings in the darkness. _I never thought the day would come._

_Well, you haven't been very much help lately, so I've had to make do, _I reply.

_You shouldn't speak ill of the dead,_ she says coolly.

_I could still do it, you know. The idiot didn't vanish his potion. I could nick a bit and—_

_You wouldn't dare! Snape would fail you for the whole year if he caught you cheating!_

_I'll probably fail anyway._

_Don't be so dramatic. You'll be fine._

_Have you seen my potion?_

_Yes, and you'll be fine._

_It looks like mud._

_You'll. Be. Fine._

I know she's right. This is just one exam—one part of one exam—and I've been doing pretty well all year. It would be stupid of me to risk all that work to try to save one grade. There's something else, though. Something itching at the back of my throat, demanding to be acknowledged.

_We've fallen apart without you,_ I confess with an inward sigh. _I'm so alone, now._

_I know,_ she answers in a tender voice that brings comfort and pain in equal amounts.

_Why did you have to go?_

Like always, she doesn't say anything, and that's how I know it's time for me to go back to facing reality. With a deep breath to keep myself from falling apart, I raise my head. By now, the dungeon is nearly empty—just me and a handful of desperate stragglers left. And Harry, of course. I'd better get a move on, otherwise it'll be just the two of us and I might be forced to talk to him.

Getting my sample together isn't easy, considering my potion has the consistency of custard, but I manage to put enough of it into the vial that Snape should have no trouble "evaluating" it. Then, I make the agonizing trip to his desk. He's distracted when I get there, too busy sneering at Harry to even notice me, so I bury my vial in the collection on the desk and chivvy back to my seat.

"Evanesco," I mutter, and my leftover potion disappears. I throw my bag over my shoulder and take the first few steps to the door, but a clang from across the room makes me hesitate. I know at once that it's Harry, that if I just turned my head, I'd see him struggling with the first of the cauldrons. I want to offer to help him, but I'd probably earn my own detention from Snape. Plus, there's no guarantee he'd accept, since we're not exactly speaking to each other. Still, the desire to do something for him is too strong to ignore.

I turn back and pull my wand out from the pocket of my robes. "Scourgify," I whisper, sweeping my arm over the array of ingredient residue and potion splatter. To my surprise, the worst of the mess disappears and the wooden surface shines like it's been freshly polished.

_There,_ I think, _that's something, at least._

Five steps into the corridor, I hear a squeal that stops me in my tracks.

"Won-Won!"

Not a second later, I feel a body slam against my back and two surprisingly strong arms wrap around my middle, pinning my own arms to my sides.

"Lav," I say with less enthusiasm. She twists around to my front, loosening her hold enough for me to free my arms. "What're you doing here?"

Her wide mouth curves into a big smile. "I finished my Divination exam early so I came down here to wait for you! But you walked right past me, silly boy!"

She turns her smile into an exaggerated pout and reaches up to pinch the end of my nose with her thumb and forefinger.

"Did I?" I ask, pushing her hand away from my face as tenderly as I can. "Sorry, I've got a lot on my mind."

"That's okay. I've caught you, all the same." She pulls her hand from mine and snakes both arms around my neck instead. "I thought we could walk to dinner together."

"Oh? Well, I'm not, er, going to dinner, actually," I lie. "I've got, er, quidditch practice."

"Oh Won-Won, that's not for hours," she says, with a raised eyebrow. "Surely, you can spare some time for a bite with me."

"Yeah, but, well," I stammer, "what I meant was I wanted to, er, study beforehand—study Potions. Alone. In—In my dormitory."

"Ooh, I'll come with you," she answers, "we can study together!"

"But you're not in N.E.W.T Potions, Lav," I argue, trying to hide my increasing annoyance with the sing-song voice that she's so fond of using.

"Then, I can help you study," she sings back. Then, her voice drops to a husky whisper. "I can be very inspiring."

My next excuse is on the tip of my tongue when she tugs me down and presses her mouth to mine. Her lips are plump and soft, sweet and slippery with fruity lip gloss. She pushes her tongue through my lips and runs the tip back and forth over my clenched teeth. Each pass sends a thrill to a different part of my body until the whole of me is tingling with need. By the time she pulls away from me, I'm nothing more than an eighteen-year-old boy with loneliness aching into his bones.

_Fuck it,_ I think as I bend down to kiss her again, squeezing every inch of her pillowy soft front to mine and letting the evidence of my surrender throb against her hip.

I use every shortcut I can think of to get us to Gryffindor Tower. She has my robe off and my shirt unbuttoned before we're through the dormitory door, my trousers unfastened and falling to the floor before we reach my bed. I try my best to keep pace, but my fingers aren't as nimble and I barely manage half of the buttons on her robes.

She pushes me onto the bed, happy to finish what I started. First, her robes. Then, her shirt, her trousers, her bra, her panties—everything, until she's standing naked before me and I can't remember how to breathe. It's the first time I've seen all of her at once. My eyes flit from place to place like pixies, unable to decide where to land. Her light skin, shimmering pink and orange in the evening sun. Her breasts, large and round with pink nipples. Her blond hair, hanging in loose coils around her face. Her lips, full and moist and slightly parted. Her waist, sloping inward and then blooming and cascading into the wide curves of her hips...

She has a tattoo on her thigh, a small butterfly, that I haven't seen before. I watch it flap its wings, zigzagging this way and that over her perfectly smooth skin. It climbs higher and higher up her leg, does a funny little loop-de-loop at her hip, flutters inward, and comes to rest, hovering just above the inverted triangle of soft brown curls nestled in between her thighs.

"Merlin's beard..." I mutter.

The giggle that follows pulls my gaze back to her face just in time for her to grin at me before tossing her hair over her shoulder and bending to reach the top drawer of my bedside table.

"What are you looking for?" I ask, my ears burning.

A second later, she pops up, brandishing a bright metallic pink square. She sits so close to me that our legs touch and I can feel her heat through the thin fabric of my boxers. "This," she answers. "I got some from Parvati. She and Dean use them and she says they're amazing."

She puts the foil packet in my hand and, before I can raise any objections, pulls me into another long, deep kiss. Her hand slips into the opening of my shorts and any worry I would have voiced about sharing condoms with Dean Thomas evaporates with the rush of blood to my groin.

I push her down, part her legs, and settle into place between them. She starts to giggle at my show of force but my hand on her breast turns it into a moan. Her nipple hardens against my palm. I drag my lips down her neck and chest and capture her other nipple in my mouth. She curls her fingers into my hair and arches her back against me, pressing her skin to my face, her breast into the movements of my tongue.

"Oh, Won-Won," she sighs as I massage her with hand and mouth, working her nipples into tight buds.

She doubles her grip on my hair, suddenly wrenching me away from her breasts with both hands and pushing me down to her abdomen. Reading her message loud and clear, I kiss her stomach, lick her belly button, trace an invisible line down her skin with my lips, and bury my face in the soft brown hair between her thighs. I push my tongue past her lips to find the warm wetness within. I lick her from one end of her sex to the other with a flat tongue and circle her arousal with the tip. She whimpers. Encouraged, I close my mouth around her and suck firmly but gently on her swollen flesh. When she lets out a long shuddering moan, I know that this is exactly where I need to stay. With each slow pass of my lips, her soft cries grow louder and more urgent. She rolls her hips against my mouth in search of satisfaction and, as I consider slipping a finger into her, she calls to me in a voice that's high and strained with need.

"Now, Won-Won! I want you now!"

I'm up on my knees in a heartbeat, tugging my shorts down with one hand and bringing the condom wrapper to my teeth with the other. I tear it open with a jerk. The cloying taste of fruit flavored lubricant almost makes me gag, but my desperation wins out. I toss the wrapper aside and unravel the slippery plastic over myself. It stretches around me like a second skin and, when I slowly enter her, the sheath seems to disappear altogether and I drown in the sensation her bare flesh surrounding mine.

Restraint becomes impossible. I thrust deep into her and groan in relief as her warmth washes over me. The feeling is so delicious I can't stop myself from chasing after it again and again and again and again until my four poster is creaking and sighing in time with my hard, steady rhythm.

"Just like that," Lavender breathes against my neck, her inner muscles clenching around me with each plunge into her depths. "Yes! Yes! Oh—Oh—Oh!"

Within a half dozen more strokes, her body starts to shudder wildly beneath me. She clamps her legs around me and bucks her hips against mine. She rakes her fingernails down my back and sinks her teeth into my shoulder, and, as if on cue, the final barrier between me and my true desire falls. Images that I forced myself to bury weeks ago spring fully formed into my mind. He's standing naked in bright sunlight, reaching for me and smiling at me the way I've always wanted him to. I take his hand, pull him to me, breathe in his scent, kiss his lips, touch his skin; I sink into him again and again, whispering his name over and over like a spell while pleasure builds to ecstasy just beyond reach.

_I'm so close..._

"Go on, Won-Won! That's it!"

"Argh!" I groan suddenly, arching my back and pushing myself deep into her, tightening every muscle in my body to add to the charade before collapsing in a heap on top of her.

She holds onto me for a long while afterwards, kissing and nuzzling my neck, running her fingertips up and down my back, basking in the afterglow of our lovemaking. I wait patiently for her to release me, matching her slow, deep breaths while the air cools around our bodies. I count ten seconds. Twenty seconds. Thirty. Forty. When she finally lets me go, I roll onto my side. The empty condom catches on my skin as I try to pull it off and for a second I worry that Lavender will see me, but she never stirs.

"Well, I've certainly worked up an appetite," she says dreamily from behind me. "Are you sure you can't come to dinner?"

I turn to her and put on my best look of sincere disappointment.

"I really wish I could, Lav, but I need to study for the second part of my Potions exam. Maybe we can do something after that."

She beams. "Is that a promise?"

"Sure."

She presses her mouth against mine for one last long kiss. "Good," she says after our lips separate with a wet smack. "I'll leave you to your work."

I make sure to keep my eyes on her, as she leaves the bed to pick up her clothes and to dress, so that none of her flirtatious glances and smiles go to waste. Then, when she finally closes the door after not one but two rounds of air kisses, I let out the breath I didn't know I'd been holding and give myself over to the guilt roiling inside me.

Deep down, I know I shouldn't be surprised. I've been using her since the start of our relationship, as an outlet for my frustration, as a distraction from my loneliness. What happened this evening was just...the next step. Or, maybe it was what I wanted from her all along.

_But I didn't go through with it. I stopped myself._

The words feel empty, like the lies I've been feeding myself for weeks to keep the shame at bay. I need something more than words. I need to act—to choose, right now. Am I with Lavender or hoping for Harry to come around?

The rattle and creak of the door swinging open pulls me out of my thoughts.

"Lav?" I call out.

But when I turn to look for her in the doorway, the eyes that meet mine are bright green, not brown. I sit up.

"Harry."

AN: I've declared a cease-fire in my own personal war between timeliness and inspiration. Please, don't let that keep you from reviewing! Even sporadic publishers need constructive criticism. -Mimi


	6. Chapter 6 - Severus

AN: This chapter contains material that some may find highly troubling/triggering. I've marked the material off. Feel free to skip it if you get uncomfortable.

Severus

_Her desperate cry wakes me from my slumber in a panic. "Mother?" I call out, still half swaddled in the tendrils of a long forgotten memory. I rub the sleep from my eyes, wondering if the voice had been a figment of my imagination, when it comes again—a shriek echoing through the worn floorboards between my bedroom and the room below._

_"Severus!"_

_I leap out of bed and race down the rickety steps, through the cramped sitting room, to the oversized fireplace, where I spot her floating head, her fair skin turned ghastly green by the flames billowing about her._

_"Please, Severus," she pleads without preamble. "There is no time! They're going to Azkaban! They blame Lucius for The Dark Lord's death! I have to save him! Please, you must take Draco! Keep him safe!"_

_"Of course," I reply, burying the apprehension that surfaces in me upon hearing her request. "Whatever you need."_

_She thanks me with a hasty nod and then she is gone. A moment later, the flames burst into an emerald rage, their eerie light touching every corner of the room. Two figures appear in the belly of the inferno, clutching each other as they spin, first with blinding speed and then slowing gradually to a halt._

_Narcissa steps out of the hearth first, followed closely by her son. I watch as she pulls him into her embrace. The words she murmurs to him are incomprehensible over the roaring green fire, but there is no mistaking the love in her eyes. A mother's love, I think as an unexpected shard of longing lances my heart._

_After bestowing a final pair of kisses upon either of Draco's cheeks, she turns to me._

_"I am in your debt," she says, and without waiting for my reply, she strides back into the fireplace to be engulfed by the blaze once more._

_In the wake of her departure, I stand frozen in the dark, temporarily stunned by how quick the universe is to make a fool of me. For years, I have maintained a cautionary distance from my godson. His parents assumed that my discomfort stemmed from a lack of experience, and I saw no reason to correct them. I believed the lie would keep me safe, yet here Draco stands in my house, thrust upon me in the dead of night. He has grown considerably since the last time I allowed myself to have a good look at him. The hallmarks of childhood have faded, leaving only long limbs and lean muscle._

_"Aren't you going to show me to my room, Godfather?" he asks, breaking the trance._

_Without a word, I turn on my heels and retrace my steps through the house, only this time, stopping at the first door at the top of the stair. Its hinges wail in protest as I push it open, not having been so disturbed in years, and the smell of stale memories fill my nostrils._

_"It's not as luxurious as the accommodations you're used to—" I say, scanning the barely moonlit little bedroom in which I spent my childhood feeling like a prisoner to my own fear._

_"You're not wrong about that," he interjects, taking no care to be discreet, as he peers in from behind me._

_"—but it should do until your mother returns," I continue. "The lavatory is across the hall, should you need to wash and—"_

_With an indignant huff, he shoulders past me and slams the door closed behind him, leaving me and the rest of my sentence alone in the darkened landing. The rage flares up from deep within me. Immediately, I feel a powerful urge to blast through the door and punish him for his insolence, but I hold back._

_He's been through an ordeal, I tell myself. He is fatigued. Forgive him._

_And the ire subsides enough for me to walk away. When I return to my bed, it is not in search of rest, but satisfaction._

_~o~_

_As the light of dawn begins to peek through my little window, I reach the height of my carnal ministrations for the third time, gasping and shuddering to my mind's rendition of his pleas for mercy. Laying hands upon myself has brought me physical satisfaction, but no relief. I can still feel his presence just on the other side of the paper-thin wall; it clings to me like an invisible layer atop my skin and beneath the sheath of sweat from my restless morning. I feel like I am suffocating, drowning in it, so I rise and dress._

_Walking past the room in which I knew him to be sleeping is another exercise in self-control. With my hand suddenly pressed against his door, I see myself silently slipping into the bedroom, binding each of his limbs to the four corners of the narrow bed, exposing every inch of his perfect white flesh and turning it raw and red, black and blue, with stroke after stroke of my leather strap; I hear his terror, his agony, his desperation as he begs me, "No more! No more!"_

_My heart is thundering again, my breaths ragged, my cock stiff and aching for even the slightest touch. I could do it right here, separated from him only by a hollow door and a mere few inches of air, and it would be far more satisfying than any other time. Or, better yet, I could treat myself to the sight of him. These muggle constructions are so shoddy; one careful exertion of force and the door would swing free and I wouldn't have to imagine his lanky body splayed out upon the mattress or his lips, slack and slightly parted in sleep—_

_No, I think, snatching my hand away. Severing contact pulls me out of the mire and in a rush of clarity I realize I need distance. Before I can convince myself otherwise, I take to the stairs and don't breathe again until I've reached the other side of the closed kitchen door._

_I never thought the day would come when this room was once again my sanctuary and yet, here I am, seeking shelter from a monster. The sense of déjà vu is strong in here. I could be seven years old again, throwing all of my weight against the door, fighting desperately to keep it closed while my father pounds at the other side._

_"Open this door, you little shit," he screams, and I can hear his belt buckle clink and jingle menacingly through the hollow wood. "I'm gonna whip the living piss out of you!"_

_I start to cry because I still have the marks from last time—Oh, how every lash had burned!—and my arms are getting tired and my bare feet are slipping on the tiled floor. He's ramming the door with his shoulder, now, and I swear my fear is the only thing keeping that door closed because my strength should have given out by now._

_Please, please, please! I pray to whomever might be listening, not even sure of what I'm praying for._

_"I'm gonna tear all the skin from your bones, you miserable welp!" he screams. "I'll rip you limb from limb and feed what's left of you to the dogs! Open this goddamned door!"_

_"Tobias? Tobias!" I hear my mother's muffled voice cry._

_"Get off me, woman!"_

_The pounding stops and I sob with relief, letting my body slide limply to the floor. I lay my head back against the door, listening to my mother work her magic on the other side._

_"What's the matter, dear?" she asks, bringing her voice down to the soothing coo that sometimes worked to calm the beast._

_"There's something wrong with that boy, Eileen," my father growls. "He's not right, I'm tellin' ya."_

_"He's just a child," my mother pleads. "He's curious!"_

_"He was doing things to the neighbor's cat! Vile things! The sounds coming out of his room—"_

_"His little game got a bit out of hand," she assures him. "He didn't mean any harm."_

_Then, I hear her heels clip-clop to the kitchen door and I know what's coming._

_"Sev?" she calls to me through the barrier. "It's Mother. Please, come out, darling."_

_I do as I'm told, pulling myself onto my shaky legs and opening to find my mother standing in the doorway. My father looms like a vulture directly behind her, belt hanging by his side and a skeptical look on his ugly face._

_"Apologize to your father," Mother says sternly._

_I put on my best impression of remorse._

_"I'm sorry, Father," I say, quietly._

_He flares his nostrils and utters a low grunt in response. Before either of us speaks again, my mother turns to face him and places a gentle hand on each of his cheeks._

_"There," she says. "All better." And she pulls him down into a kiss. He doesn't take his beady, coal black eyes off me, not even as he shoves his tongue into my mother's mouth, so I stare right back at him until my mother moves his hand onto her backside and he squeezes her in silent acceptance of her offering. I can't stand to see any more. My cheeks burn and hatred roars in my ears._

_Thankfully, their embrace doesn't last long. With a large whiskey that will never need refilling and whispered promises of a hot supper, my mother coaxes my father onto the sofa, in front of the television, where she and I both know he'll stay all night, so long as he isn't disturbed._

_I had to understand, she told me when she returned to the kitchen, I wasn't like other children. I was special and Father was jealous. I simply had to learn to control myself and she was going to teach me. I didn't understand, but it didn't matter, because, in the calm that followed the storm, she was mine. She stayed with me, whiling away the hours it would take for my father to drink himself into a stupor, turning this rundown little kitchen into our special place._

_As I look around the room, I realize with a pang of guilt that I've allowed our sanctuary go to ruin._

_"Always begin by cleansing your workspace," I remember Mother telling me at the start of our lessons. "A blank canvas does wonders for the mind."_

_Like a good boy, I drop to my hands and knees and lay into the thick blanket of dust on the floor with an old brush and a bucket of water. The physical demands of the work are a welcome distraction for my body. I relish in the rough wooden brush handle scraping against my palms, the unyielding tiles gnawing at my knees, the fire growing in my muscles as I scrub and scrub and scrub. When the floor runs out more quickly than I expect it to, I turn my attention to the higher surfaces: the grimy countertops and grease stained cupboards, the table riddled with water rings and the cooktop peppered with splatters of burned-on food. I wash and rinse and dust and polish until all evidence of my neglect has been obliterated._

_"Next, lay out your tools," she says, and I can almost feel her gaze over my shoulder. "Having them within reach keeps the process smooth."_

_I rummage through the drawers to find what I need—a whisk, a spatula, a battered frying pan, a bowl, two plates, two forks, and a knife (there was never any need to set a place for my father.)—and arrange them across the counter in the order that I'll need them._

_"Very good, Sev. Now, prepare your ingredients."_

_This step, I realize as I pull open the cupboards and find only bare shelves, is going to require some creativity. I stand at the window above the sink and scan the outlined buildings of my tiny neighborhood, as my mother had done whenever my father's expectation of a hot meal surmounted his ability to provide for one._

_"Mrs. Friedman over there," she'd whisper, pointing through the open window to the house on the other side of our back garden, "is growing some lovely rosemary and Mr. Pogget—" She pointed to the house at the end of the road. "—had thirteen little hatchlings last spring that will have matured nicely by now."_

_Despite the bleakness of the circumstance, I secretly longed for these times, for it was only in desperation that she broke my father's rule about keeping magic out of the house. She squared her shoulders and pulled a short, dark, wooden wand out of her apron pocket. I smiled in giddy anticipation. She waved the wand, first at the window and then at the counter and before I could blink, there was a fat hen clucking in our kitchen. Mother silenced it with a jab of her wand and a flash of green light, and then set me to the task of plucking its feathers._

_Mrs. Friedman and Mr. Pogget have both long since perished, but there is a large chain muggle grocery not too far away that surely wouldn't miss a half dozen eggs and some bacon. I pull my wand out of my pocket and make the ingredients appear, along with some salt and pepper for flavor._

_Now, I think, smiling for the first time since the start of the summer holidays, the real work commences._

_I set the frying pan on the cooktop and lay as many strips of thick bacon into it as will fit. In a matter of minutes the room is filled with the sound and smell of sizzling meat. As the bacon cooks, I crack the eggs into the bowl, sprinkle in the salt and pepper, and begin to beat the mixture with the whisk._

_"What in Merlin's name are you doing?"_

_My body jerks violently and I nearly drop the bowl. His chuckle dances across the room. I right myself quickly, resolving not to lose control, but when I turn around and see him wearing nothing but a smirk from the waist up, my convictions aren't so strong. I clear my suddenly tight throat._

_"You're awake," I say, stiffly. "Good. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Have a seat."_

_To my surprise, he sits at the table without a word. When I resume my cooking, however, he finds his voice._

_"Cooking your own food?" he drawls as I take up whisking the eggs once again. "Don't you know you can do that by magic?"_

_"I am well aware of what I can and can't accomplish by magic, thank you," I reply. "I choose to cook by hand."_

_"Why?"_

_"My reasons for doing anything are none of your concern."_

_His lack of a retort tells me I have upset him. Clearly, he's not used to not getting his way._

_Good, I think with a triumphant smirk of my own._

_The smell of the cooked bacon fills the empty air between us, signaling its doneness. I divide the strips of meat evenly between our two plates. Then, I take out my wand and wave it over the still warm frying pan. The majority of the grease disappears, leaving just enough for scrambling eggs._

_"This place is a dump," he says over the eggs crackling as they hit the hot pan. I ignore this feeble attempt at provoking me and carry on swirling the eggs around the pan. "And that closet you made me sleep in," he continues, "hasn't got any bloody air in it. I couldn't even stand to have my clothes on."_

_The thought of his nakedness does stir me, but not in any way he can see. I can feel his annoyance at my lack of a reaction burning a hole into my back, but I scoop some perfectly fluffy eggs onto his plate as if absolutely nothing has occurred. Then, solely for his benefit, I tap the edge of the plate twice with the tip of my wand. His breakfast hovers up to eye level and floats to the table, landing in front of his seat with a soft rap._

_As I prepare my own plate, I hear the unmistakeable scraping sound of his food traveling across the table punctuated by the sharp tinkle of ceramic smashing against tile. I know there will be a mess when I turn around—I've prepared myself for the sight of my efforts all over the kitchen floor—but nothing prepares me for the look on his face._

_"Whoops," he says, eyebrow cocked above the self-satisfied smile._

_I let out a sharp exhalation._

_"Clean it up," I command._

_"You're the one who's determined to act like a house elf," he challenges. "You clean it."_

_The shred of restraint I've been holding onto evaporates. I fly at him with outstretched arms. He screams and wrenches himself away but my fingers close around a hank of his hair. I rip him out of his seat, bend him over the table, and, holding him down by the small of his back, lay into his rear with the spatula._

_"I—will not—be—dis—respected—in—my—home!" I scream, emphasizing each word with a swat to his perfectly white posterior._

_The slotted metal whistles through the air as I whip him, smacking loudly against his skin, drawing up angry red welts that make my mouth water. He screams and cries and tries to fight me off, but I hold him fast, bearing my full weight upon his back. The monster inside me demands more pain, so I swing harder, grunting like an animal as I hit him more ferociously, teeth bared and chest heaving with the effort. He pushes against me again, mid-swing. I lose my balance and fall back against the fridge. He runs, stumbling over furniture, his clothes, his own two feet. He's out of the kitchen, running through the living room toward the front door._

_"No, you don't!" I growl as I tear after him._

_My fingers close around the fabric of his pajama bottoms just as his fingertips graze the doorknob. I draw him back with a sharp tug and the screech of stretching seams mingles with his anguished cry._

_"No!" he screams as his body catapults back into mine. "Let me go!"_

_The monster snarls with savage pleasure. My arms clamp around Draco's torso, pinning his arms to his sides, but he is still fighting for freedom. He thrashes his body every which way in attempt to loosen my hold, and, when that doesn't work, he kicks his legs wildly into the air to try to unbalance me. Undeterred, I half carry and half drag him to the old sofa, toss him unceremoniously onto the cushions, and mount his back._

_"Please," he begs. "Please! I'm sorry! I'm—Argh!"_

_I pull his arms back and pin them down with one hand. His pleas make me dizzy and my cock rigid with excitement. I didn't know just how badly I wanted him until now, until I felt him writhing against me, until I could taste his fear, and I wonder fleetingly if he is afraid for knowing or not knowing what I am about to do to him._

_CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAU_

_"You are a wicked boy," I growl, using my free hand to pull his loosened pajama waistband down to uncover his backside. "and you need to be punished."_

_His flesh is a map of intersecting avenues. The welts that run across his cheeks are raised, now, and so warm to the touch. My pulse quickens as I trace the paths I've made with my fingertip, remembering the intense satisfaction of landing each blow, but I still want more. I stray off course, wandering into the valley where his innocence lies. His whole body tenses at my approach. I push one digit through the ring of tightened muscle, sinking into him past the first knuckle, then the second. His screams melt into sobs and a torrent of shivers dances down my spine._

_"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he wails, and I'm sure that, for the first time in his lavish little life, he truly and sincerely is, but the time for mercy has long passed. The monster has stepped out of the shadows craving recompense, and I have no intention of denying him._

_"You are a wicked boy," I repeat breathlessly, intoxicated by his heat, "and you need to be punished."_

_I can no longer bear the weight of my desire. My body is screaming for release. Panting with anticipation, I end my exploration in favor of removing the barriers between his flesh and mine. I lift the front of my robes and draw my throbbing arousal from my undergarments. A shift in position has me pressed against his tightly clenched buttocks, gasping as his every jolt and twitch threatens to pelt me into rapture; a hard thrust propels me through the cleft between his cheeks. His resistance is commendable, but no match for my strength, and when I force my way into his body—when I bury my shaft deep inside of him—he fills the musty little room with the screams I've only ever heard in my fantasies._

_My breath comes in erratic little gasps as I take my pleasure from him like a beast, rutting with abandon, rocking the old sofa to the melody of his howls. His pain is more delectable than I could have imagined—the feeling of his flesh stretching and tearing around mine, the sweet sounds of his agony. I can't see, can't breathe for the exquisite pressure building in my groin. The ascent is swift, and then, before I can savor even a moment of it, I plunge into an earth-shattering release. Currents of ecstasy rip through me while my essence spills out. I pump into him like mad, desperate to draw out every last tender morsel of pleasurable sensation his body has to offer, and when the well runs dry, an absolute fatigue descends upon me; my body wilts, my skin tingles, and I am overcome with a feeling that I can only describe as pure satisfaction._

_END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END / _

_He shivers beneath me, trembling like a frightened bird as I regain my breathing. It brings me such elation to see him so broken, to know that he has finally tasted my power, but even now, the reality of my indulgence has begun to set in. I have seen men suffer greatly for far less grievous acts committed against Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy's precious son; I doubt even my god-fatherhood could exempt me from a similar fate. I will have to erase his memory, and perhaps send him to back to his bed with the subtle suggestion that any residual unpleasant feelings are the result of a bad night's sleep._

_But the memories, I think as I dip my head to his hair and inhale his scent. They are mine to keep._

_The moment I remove my weight from his body, he scrambles over the sofa arm and across the floor to the farthest corner of the room. He sits with his back pressed against the spines of my volumes, his arms binding his knees tightly to his chest. His silver eyes shine with tears as he stares at me, caught between terror and hatred._

_"I would apologize," I say as I stand to rearrange my robes, my body still pulsing with exaltation, "but it seems rather indecent of me to lie."_

_I take a step toward him and he flinches._

_"St–Stay away from me!" he croaks, a panicked flush rising to his cheeks._

_"The only comfort I can offer," I continue, taking another step forward, "is that you will not have to remember this. I will relieve you of the burden of this memory, see to your injuries, and it will be as if this never happened."_

_"Don't touch me!"_

_His breath quickens and his eyes dart around the room in search of what—an escape? A weapon? I wonder if he is too shocked to understand._

_"Draco, I want to help you," I say slowly, but I can see him growing more and more frantic. I must act quickly. I draw my wand. "Stupe—"_

_A pillar of emerald flame fills the cold hearth, pulling my attention away from the boy. A cloaked figure spins in its center. She lurches forward, arms outstretched, and I lunge toward the fireplace to catch her._

_"Narcissa!" I gasp as she lands hard against my chest. I cradle her head in the crook of my arm and use my free hand to push the loose strands of silk—now crusted with blood and filth—away from her face, and as her blue eyes clouded with anguish lock onto mine, the thousand questions teeming over the tip of my tongue fall still._

_"Where's Father?" Draco demands from the floor. "You said you would bring him back. Where is he?"_

_Unexpectedly, my heart breaks for him, for his foolish, unwavering belief that both of his parents would return to him unscathed. Narcissa grimaces at her son's words and I know that her heart is breaking, too. Her eyes flutter closed. The mask of perpetual sang-froid crumbles to reveal her devastation. She slips out of my supportive embrace and for a moment I think she will fall, but she catches herself, stands, and limps to her son._

_"Mother?" he begs, looking at her with eyes full of the question whose answer he already knows and yet still cannot bear to hear._

_She kneels before him, captures both of his cheeks in her slender, bloodstained hands, brings her forehead to his and murmurs, with eyes closed, the awful truth she'd fought so hard and failed to spare him. They break down together, mother and son, sobbing and clinging to one another in their shared grief, and I have never felt more unwelcome._

_~o~_

_It took mere hours for word to trickle through the few old pureblood families left untouched by the Ministry—Lucius Malfoy killed in Azkaban! Lucius Malfoy buried in an unmarked grave amongst murderers and thieves!—and Narcissa, being no fool, knew she must act quickly. My invitation arrived on doves' wings not one hour after her departure. The service was to take place the next morning and in the precious few hours before, she would scrub every bit of darkness from her family's home._

_When I arrive at the Manor I am bombarded with tribute upon tribute to Lucius Malfoy's greatness, his heroism, his philanthropic efforts, his dedication to his family. I can focus on none of it. Thirteen hours have passed since Draco left my living room—thirteen panic-riddled hours which I have spent regretting and readying myself for Narcissa's inevitable retribution. When the morning dawned undisturbed, I knew that this would be my only chance to save myself._

_The work on the interior of the Manor is impressive, but as I move through the house to the beautifully landscaped grounds, the truth proves to be more difficult to conceal. Rows and rows of solid gold chairs serve as audience to a marble dais and lectern, rows and rows that should be overflowing with family and friends, sitting vacant as a stark reminder that even the best intentions and the most prodigious magical skill cannot conjure loyalty._

_The few seats aside from mine that are occupied hold the press, who erupt in a flurry of shutter clicks and flashes when Narcissa rises from her seat next to me to deliver her husband's eulogy. She is a vision of tragic beauty, in flowing dress robes of white and gold, but they want nothing of her pain; they seek only to document that the deepest pockets in British wizarding society could not convince a witch or wizard of repute to honor a known Death Eater. Nevertheless, she stands with poise as she speaks of Lucius's bravery, of how he sacrificed his life to save his family, with her head held high above the whispers._

_Her determination would move me under different circumstances, but on this particularly gray morning, my anxiety is all-consuming. My eyes from wander over the grounds again and again, disappointment following every pass that ends with no sign of the boy, until a flicker of movement draws my gaze to the house. He stands in the large window of Lucius's study on the topmost floor, barely visible in the gap between two heavy curtains, but unmistakeable with his silver blonde hair. Our eyes meet and my stomach lurches. Then, I blink, and he is gone. The urge to leap from my seat and chase after him is a difficult one to suppress, but somehow I manage. When the service finally ends—with a conjured flock of doves that soars in formation before converging into a shining white obelisk to modest applause—I offer the grieving widow my solemn condolences and excuse myself._

_When I push through the solid oak door of the study, I am shocked by the sight of him reaching into the glass case next to his father's desk. I didn't expect him to have stayed after spotting me on the grounds._

_My instincts begin to urge me. Do it now! And, indeed, my fingers twitch for my wand, but curiosity stays my hand._

_He is dressed in white and gold to match his mother's costume of mourning, but carries none of her elegance in his grief. His robes are disheveled, his hair unkempt, his eyes puffy and red, and his gaze is glassy and unfocused. As I watch him pull a large bottle of amber liquid and an ornately etched crystal tumbler out of the cabinet, completely unperturbed by my appearance, I can't help but wonder how much of this breakdown is my doing._

_"Draco?" I query, taking a few cautious steps into the room._

_"Have you come to wish me a happy birthday, Godfather?" he slurs, without looking up from the task of pouring himself a generous measure of the libation._

_The question catches me off guard and I stop, mid-stride. Has he done something to himself, I wonder, damaged his mind while attempting to erase his own memory?_

_"No?" he carries on without waiting for my answer. "Don't worry. My own mother didn't remember. Why should you?"_

_His unsteady hand sloshes more of the drink over the glass's rim than into it. I hesitate before replying. "Well, Draco, I'm sure that, given the circumstances, you can forgive her mistake."_

_"Ha!" he laughs bitterly, slamming the bottle down onto the polished wooden surface of the desk. "Do you really think so, Godfather? Do you really believe I can be so magnanimous—" He smiles to himself, as if impressed by his own cleverness. "—as to forgive such a betrayal? I wonder what else you think I'm capable of forgiving."_

_His eyes flick up to me for my reaction and, for the briefest of moments, I see in them, not sadness or confusion, but excitement. It seems that I have underestimated him. My finding him here was clearly by his design._

_"I know you must be hurting," I tell him in a calm low murmur. "Let me help you ease at least some of the burden."_

_"I thought," he carries on as if he hasn't heard me, "that I was going to have to end my private celebration when Mummy caught me drinking her special elf wine. She wasn't very happy. Locked me out of the cellar. Then I remembered this little gem! Father bought it on the day I was born. He told me he was saving it to share with me on my seventeenth birthday. It's a bit early, but I'm sure he won't mind." With his eyes still trained on mine, he brings the glass to his lips and smirks. "Given the circumstances."_

_The little concern I have left vanishes as quickly as the liquor drains from his glass. His face contorts into a grimace as his throat burns and my nostrils flare in indignation. "Enough!" I snarl. "I am trying to help you, Draco. I don't appreciate being mocked!"_

_"Well, I don't appreciate being raped," he retorts, "but here we both are."_

_He pours himself another drink and I can only watch, taken aback by his blasé attitude. I know it is foolish—I should be relieved!—but I cannot keep the feeling of insult at bay. The image of yesterday's crying, quivering, broken mouse of a boy has stuck so fast in my mind that to see him behaving so nonchalantly infuriates me._

_"What's the matter, Godfather?" he taunts, seeming to have read my thoughts. "Lost your confidence? Worried you didn't make a strong enough impression?"_

_He knocks the second helping back and shudders as the alcohol hits him again. In the time it takes for him to put the glass down again, I close the gap between us. Suddenly, his finely embroidered lapels are bunched in my fists and I am breathing in the pungent fumes curling from his mouth._

_"You stupid little shit," I hiss into his face. "You insolent welp!" My body is pressed against his, pinning him to the desk, the end of my nose barely an inch from his. Even in my ire—or perhaps because of it—my body is reacting to being so close to him. The urge to punish him is impossible to ignore, and why should I? I've done it once before and he certainly learned his lesson then. "You—"_

_"Wicked, wicked boy," he supplies, and as he speaks, I feel the peculiar sensation of his legs sliding up the sides of mine. He hoists himself onto the desk and wraps his legs around my hips, thrusting his groin against mine._

_I choke on a groan. "What are you—"_

_His arms snake around my neck and pull me down. "Go on," he breathes hotly into my ear. "Do it! Punish me! Make me hurt!"_

_He smashes his lips against mine, forces his tongue past my teeth. I pull away and push him down. The back of his head hits the desk with a dull thud. My hands creep up to his neck as my heart hammers in anticipation._

_"Say it again," I hiss, closing my fingers around his throat and his mouth breaks into that maddening, triumphant smirk._

_"I am a wicked boy, and I need to be punished. Punish me."_

AN: Many thanks to supertallscandinaviangiant for beta reading for me! I couldn't have finished without you. This chapter was rough, but my favorite so far. Leave your thoughts in the reviews! Next chapter probably won't be up til after Christmas because it's knitting season!


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